


We wait, we dream

by imqerio



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24892240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imqerio/pseuds/imqerio
Summary: “What do we do now?” She whispers, because Draco feels the same as she does, and she knows it.“We wait. We dream,” he replies, his face turning to study her own.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 9
Kudos: 60





	We wait, we dream

**September 1998**

Hermione Granger had never seen such a mess in her life. Never before had she seen somebody look so innocent, yet so guilty all the same. Never before had she imagined seeing Draco Malfoy on the doorstep of an Order controlled safehouse, looking so terrified and helpless. Perhaps life did have its way of surprising somebody every once or twice.

Perhaps it was the act that he looked as if he had committed, perhaps it was the way the hand that held his wand shook violently with every haggard breath he inhaled, or perhaps it was the way he had always seemed like he loved his wickedness and pride, but as of now, everything he had come to know, was crumbling to pieces at his very fingertips.

The person he was, was branded on his skin, along with his Dark Mark, along with the crimson red smears of rustic blood, drying slowly to black. It's there, it was engulfing him, it lingered in his eyes. The only thing that held the shred of sanity he had managed to keep within himself was there, but hidden, contained in the deepest depths of his bones.

Hermione was staring, her eyes grazing over every inch of his body, taking him in. Was it his own blood staining his pale skin? How long had the dirt been streaked through his tangled hair? And just what exactly was it that his eyes struggled to hide?

Draco stood silently, not daring himself to say a word, not even open his mouth, he was afraid of what would tumble out of it. Instead, he tried to keep his expression stoic, but one look at the girl in front of him gazing at him with her widened, amber eyes was enough to tell him he had revealed enough, that she would be reporting his sudden and startling appearance back to Harry and Ron, telling them to watch out, that there was a very, very good chance that none other than Draco Malfoy had resorted to killing people not only with his wand, but with his own pale, shaking hands.

She only spoke when he began to turn away, his eyes breaking the split-second contact they had made with hers. When her voice filled the air, it was hoarse and trembling, and he could tell she was trying to keep it collected and steady. "I... I'm not going to ask questions, yet. Perhaps you should come inside and shower. The scent of blood is recognisable a mile off. I warn you, however, members of the Order occupy here. Don't expect them to be jumping with joy at your presence. I would most likely advise you to expect the opposite, actually."

"The thought of what your little friends think about me truly worries me the least at this moment in time. As I'm sure you have had plenty of experience with, Granger, being covered in drying blood isn't the most comforting nor satisfying feeling," sneers Draco, his eyes narrowing. Hermione bit her tongue to hold a snappy retort. She figured she had to have some remorse; he had just shown up on her doorstep seeking refuge, only bringing about a million questions Hermione was dying to ask, but forcing herself to hold back. There would be time later. There was always time.

Stepping aside to allow him through the door, the only thing she replied with was, "Remove your shoes, please. We would appreciate the carpet staying the colour it is."

**December 1998**

The war had raged on for months, and there was no promise of it stopping. The death rate for Voldemort’s side was high, but the death rate for the Order was higher. Harry and Ron were hardly around, due to always carrying out missions that Hermione had planned along with other Order members. As well as running a safe house. As well as dealing with Draco Malfoy. 

The latter proved to be the most difficult, as suspected. 

To Hermione’s surprise, he had proved himself useful, especially to Kingsley and the Order. Often when she was planning missions and gathering materials, he would be by her side, and when he wasn’t, she often felt displaced; like something was missing. It surprised her how attached she had become to him, despite barely knowing him. She still yearned to find out just who’s blood had been on his hands when he showed up on the doorstep. 

Yes, he was proving himself useful, but he was still as insufferable as ever. Especially to Hermione. But maybe that was her sensitivity that the war had brought on provoking that, because everybody else in the safehouse seemed to tolerate, perhaps humour him. They got along, which was another thing that surprised her. That was what made him insufferable.

At the current moment in time, she was strolling through the garden, hugging her jacket around her to shield herself from the deceiving December sun, the cold pinching her skin like knives. It was frosty, snow beginning to trickle down the sky. It felt peaceful. She felt peaceful. And then she didn’t. Not when people were dying. Not when the guilt consumed her because how could she even dare to feel peaceful when the war had been going on for almost a year and a half? When no progress had been made? Feeling peaceful was simply out of the question. 

“Granger.”

Hermione’s gaze snaps up to the crisp voice behind her. He was there, looking as elegant as ever. It was almost illegal, she thought, to look so hauntingly beautiful, with white specks of snow falling on his lean shoulders, his jawline sharp as his eyes slanted over to her. She silently waits for him to continue. 

He doesn’t. 

He walks over and falls into step beside her, motioning for her to continue walking, and so she does, the strange, uneasy feeling in her stomach settling, even if only for a few minutes. 

**January 1999**

It’s snowing lightly again, and Hermione finds herself walking outside with Draco. She’s standing closer to him than she ever thought she’d be comfortable with, but he doesn’t seem to mind, and if he does, he continues to let their arms brush against one and other, so she does too, finding a sense of tranquillity beside him. 

This seems to be an ongoing arrangement, they walk together. Through the snow, rain, wind, whatever it may be, they fall into step together and walk. Sometimes it’s silent, and sometimes it’s not. Hermione finds that she’s become rather accustomed and, Godric forgive her, fond of his voice. 

She learns about his past, his love for his mother, his fear turned to anger, turned sorrow directed towards his father. She learns that he never hated muggle-borns, not completely, and that since he was told to do so, he did. 

Hermione learns that the day he showed up on the doorstep of the safehouse that the crimson blood that coated his hands belonged to none other than his flesh and blood, his mothers. She learns that Draco Malfoy officially decided to deflect from the Death Eaters that day, leaving all he had ever known behind him in a storm of hijacked manors and irreparable families. Over time, Hermione learns that Draco Malfoy is not at all who she expected he once was. 

Or maybe he was, but she never took the time to see him properly through the walls she was slowly breaking down.

**February 1999**

She’s been on a mission for the last four days. Missions are only supposed to last three, at maximum. Usually, she would be left to strategize and plan, but this time, Lupin had deemed her ‘good enough’ to fight. 

Whatever that meant. She was always fighting. Always, always fighting. Just because it was in a house, concealed on the borders of Wales, did not mean her and her housemates' fight was any less important. War is a plague, affecting everyone in its unwelcomed wake. 

When she finally returns along with her fellow Order members, Draco is the last to greet her. With bloodshot eyes and chapped lips, his hair tousled and a frown on his haunting features, he watches silently as she steps into the makeshift living room. She begins to walk to him. He doesn’t move. 

“Draco?” She uses his given name. 

“Granger.” She tries to mistake the relieved tone to his voice for something else. She fails. 

The next thing she knows, she is wrapped in his arms, her head buried in his chest as she listens to his rapid breaths. His shallow, rapid breaths. His shaking hands clutching her back. It is then she understands that Draco Malfoy needs her as much as she needs him.

It isn’t until later that night when she is lying beside him, his arms wrapped around her waist and her hands clinging to his shoulders, that she realises their grief is bigger than any moon, and how they had miscalculated the way the war will forever haunt them. 

The whispers following them through the house, the cracked pavements of abandoned streets reminding them that they are not alone. They are being watched, followed, observed, at all times. 

The bags under their eyes get bigger the more they try to sleep. It is now that she realises there will be no sleep for terrified souls. 

**March 1999**

They’re walking again. They seem to know each other well these days, and Hermione finds herself becoming more and more attached to him as time drags on, and she often wonders if it was due to the war leaving her hopeless and Draco Malfoy providing her with safe promises and a protected sanctuary in the cold garden of the safehouse.

She often tries to convince herself that it is just the war that is causing her to feel so attached to him. That it was the war that sparked the sudden defensive attitude towards him. But now? She doesn’t care, because he feels the same. 

He looks at her, and she glances back up at him. Her hands are shaking, and she’s not sure if it’s stress anymore. He’s got pretty grey eyes that she could drown in, and a car crash smile that feels like taking a step off a high ledge, with nothing to catch her but the windrush, leaving her breathless and aching for more. 

She knows better than this, she should know better than this. His life is a gun to the head and she should know she shouldn’t let him get under her skin, but he has, and there was no way to get him out. She knows his idea of attraction, desire, perhaps even love, is black eyes, split knuckles, an antidote in the form of secret kisses and locked bedroom doors, but she realises now that her idea of whatever she feels for him isn’t far from it either. 

And despite herself, despite the circumstances, she hopes he will let her teach him differently.

As she looks at him, her assertive eyes moving over his face, she knows that she will not be allowed to keep him. 

**May 1999**

It’s near the end. She can feel it. After years of bloodshed, she can feel the end. The air seemed to change, her housemates' expressions never shifting from the grim, frightening manner etched on their faces. Missions become more intense. Planning becomes more intense.

Her unexpected relationship with Draco becomes more intense.

They’re sitting on the decking, the heavy wind swirling around them with the cold rain beating down. Colder than necessary for the month of May, but then again, Hermione supposed everything was cold at the moment. 

The stars shine above them, and she feels at ease, even if only for a few minutes. The night grows heavy, as they always do. In her head, she is hurting for herself. For her parents. For Harry and Ron. For her fellow Order members. For Draco. For everyone. 

The sky seems to grow so wide it could be a cavern, and she is somewhere underneath it, inside it, lost. But it’s okay. Because as unanticipated as it is, Draco is beside her. 

“What do we do now?” She whispers, because Draco feels the same as she does, and she knows it. The end is near. 

“We wait. We dream,” he replies, his face turning to study her own. She nods and tilts her head back up to the sky. 

So she dreams, and she keeps dreaming. And one word crystallizes in her mouth like sugar; hope. 

**June 1999**

The battlefield is drenched in rain or blood. Or both. She can’t quite tell. They’ve won, and she should feel happy. She should feel like a giant weight has been lifted off her chest, like she can finally breathe again. But she doesn’t. 

She smiles and hugs Harry, laughs with Ron, but Draco isn’t beside her, and she doesn’t know what to feel about that. 

They go to the makeshift infirmary, and Draco is still nowhere to be seen. Hours pass, or perhaps it’s minutes, she has no concept of time now, but she is sure of the fact that Draco is not here, he’s not by her side, and it troubles her more than anything. 

So she leaves. She walks out of the infirmary and onto the deserted battlefield filled with nothing but the souls of those who are no longer here. And her heart stops when she sees Draco is with them.

She had seen death ripping its way from a body before, and it was not beautiful. But this? This was different. This was like watching herself view the circumstances, knowing there was nothing she could ever do to change the past. 

She wonders if there’s any hope that he can feel her trembling as she sinks to her knees beside him. The tears haven’t come, her mouth only moulding words she was not taught to speak. Why isn’t she crying? She looks over his face, her hand cupping his cheek as she comes to the realisation that there’s something brutal in the way that youth shapes a person. How the past will forever surround you.

She tries to find a pulse, but hopefulness is like a drug. It’s hard to escape the addiction of it, and the reality is crushing. There’s no pulse, no breathing, no nothing. 

To her, this is a violence that does not leave bruises or draw blood, that does not display injury, but still harbours the empty ache in her shoulders as if she’s been struck by chainmail. After all, it’s not called a war if your brain is the only thing that suffers. 

She’s trembling now, tears beginning to trickle down her dirt covered face, and she doesn’t care that Harry and Ron are running out to find her whimpering over Draco Malfoy’s lifeless body. She doesn’t care about anything right now, despite the success, despite the victory. She’s lost the one person who made her feel anything all for the better part of a year. 

She looks over the sea of blood as she’s dragged away, feeling as though she is suffocating in physical heartache. After all, drowning has always been easier than flying anyway. Her gaze lands on Draco one last time. It had never occurred to her that he would be the one to leave.

**September 1999**

It’s supposed to get easier. The initial ache and pain are supposed to dwindle away after the first shock. Or so Hermione thought. She’s living with Harry and Ron at the minute in Grimmauld Place, and they’re not quite sure how to deal with her grief.

She wonders if Draco knows she dreams about him all the time. She wonders if he knows that she’s so constantly hollow without him that sometimes she feels as if she’s nothing but ache. She buries herself in books as if reading them enough times will make them real. However, every sentence she reads starts with making her think of him and ends with her heart wanting to burst open like a floodgate ready for the damage. 

Harry tells her she’s too young for this kind of heartache, and Ron tells her that she’s too old for fairytales, so she sits at the window wishing for Draco to come knowing all the well he never will. 

She thinks back and realises she was right. 

She was not allowed to keep him.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.


End file.
